World Without
by Gail Lucinda Autor
Summary: She's not his. Not really. She never was. Songfic  somewhat  for World Without by A Fine Frenzy. One shot. Rated T for safety. R&R.  Bad summary.


**Author's note: wrote this because I'm having some writer's block issues with my chapter Dramoine fic, **_**A Strange Celebration. **_

**I don't own Harry Potter or World Without by A Fine Frenzy.**

**R&R!**

_It must be written that the moon_

_Elbowed the stars and said_

_Let's do our best to make it hard for them._

He's never wanted her to love him back.

He's always thought, that maybe, if she hated him like she always seemed to, then maybe, maybe, he could get over her. If his love for her was unrequited, it would be for the best. For both of them. It would fade, and they would both stay safe. Well, not safe exactly. With the world in the state it was in, neither of them were truly safe. He was a Death Eater; she was a Muggle born. They were not safe, no matter what.

He's loved her for so long. Perhaps she in't beautiful in the traditional sense of the word. But she's smart, and firey, and willful. She's intense. She's brave.

And then he found out about her birth.

He told himself he had to hate her, from that moment on, or at least seem like it. Muggle born. His father will kill him if he knows he is in love with such a girl.

His arch rival, in academics and everything else.

More beautiful and perfect than any Slytherin. Far more wonderful than Pansy Parkinson, or any of the girls he has used over the years to help make him forget her, hoping they could lead his heart from the girl that it had chosen without consulting his mind. It never works, though. They don't have her spark, her fire, her intelligence, her unique outlook on the world.

They are not her.

Every time he sees her, he feels his heartbeat quicken. Every time he picks a fight with her, he's exhilarated. Every time she opens her mouth to make a sharp retort, he pictures gathering her in his arms, pulling her close, and kissing that mouth.

He usually makes himself stop there.

All the insults he's hurled at her have been for his benefit rather than her pain. Trying to convince himself they were true; her blood is filthy, she's a prude, she's a know it all, she's a bitch. It's no good, though. He knows they're lies, all lies.

It's lucky he's claimed the spot as her tormentor, because if he saw someone else calling her the things he calls her, he just might have to throttle that someone. And that would blow it.

Now, Weasly's broken her heart. She's crying, alone, in there. He wants to go to her, to help her, to make her feel better. He wants it so desperately that his hand is turning the doorknob of its own accord, and it's too late to turn back. She's looked up, she's seen him. He can't define the look on her face, or maybe he just doesn't want to.

He crosses to her slowly. Have his footsteps always been this loud? Gone are his thoughts of the vanishing cabinet, of the Dark Lord, of what he will have to do to Dumbledore. She is all that exists in his world at this moment. She says nothing, only watches him. Her face and eyes are shiny with tears, glittering like tiny jewels in her lashes.

At last she speaks, only a little of her usual venom in her sweet voice. "What are you doing here?" she asks, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

He chooses not to answer, but instead sits down beside her and touches her hair so softly that he wonders if she feels it. It sends electricity arcing through his body, this barest of touches, most marvelous of sensations.

She feels it. She's looking at him; with hatred or curiosity or anything else he cannot say. Her eyes are open wide, her lips parted slightly. He knows this isn't a good time. He knows she's hurting. And he knows that he's an idiot for coming in here at all. But he can't help it. He's waited too long.

He reminds himself that he's endangering her. He's being selfish. He should just leave.

There's a stray tear on her cheek. He leans forward and brushes it away with his lips, hardly touching her skin, but tasting the salt of the droplet all the same. She's sitting so still while he does this that he's forced to wonder if she's even breathing.

"Granger?" he whispers in her ear.

"Malfoy, what are you doing?" She says it tiredly, but there's a strange, breathless kind of wonderment in her voice as well. He wants to answer, but how can he when he doesn't know himself?

His fingers are on her hair again, the curls soft and gentle on his skin. He strokes it gently, caressing the locks as if they are solid gold. She's still not moving. Hoping he'll go away, or hoping he'll continue? He decides to see. If she doesn't want him here, he needs to leave. It takes him a moment, but he forces his hand to move from her hair.

She does nothing, at first. It's just as he's getting up to leave that he feels her fingers brush his wrist.

"Wait," she says.

He turns around. She's on her feet, facing him. She takes one step in his direction, and then another. Her hands hover at his waist, and then her lips are on his, so gently he thinks it must surely be his imagination. Then her mouth presses to his more firmly, her hands are on the small of his back, and she's pulling him closer to her, standing on tiptoe to kiss him better. For one glorious moment he tastes her lips: she tastes of cinnamon, as he had always pictured, and a little salt from her tears as well.

Then his hands are on hers, removing them from his body, gently but firmly. Part of him screams 'No! No!' but the rest of him knows that it's for the best. He pulls away from her, relishing a final taste of cinnamon and something like oranges.

He sees hurt in her eyes and curses himself.

"I can't do this to you." To his relief, he sounds calm and controlled, instead of like he's about to cry.

"Why?" she wants to know, her body so close to his it hurts him inside. If things were different…

No, that isn't the right line of thinking.

He has to answer her. "I'm putting us in danger," he murmurs, but he feels himself being drawn slightly closer to her, though there remains a tiny gap between them.

"I'm always in danger," she answers. "And so are you. You think I don't know?" Her fingertips brush his inner left forearm, and he understands. She knows, of course. She knows everything. She has to know, then, that he didn't have a choice.

Then again, she doesn't know him. She thinks he's an arrogant git.

She's right, of course, but it still hurts.

"I had no choice," he breathes, so incredibly, exquisitely, tantalizingly close to her now that it's all he can do to keep himself from snogging her again.

"I know," she tells him softly, her fingers playing with the sleeve on his left arm, just over his Mark.

He wonders if she means that, or if she's just trying to keep him from leaving.

"Don't go." She's almost pleading. He looks into her eyes, so wide and innocent, so trusting. Trusting him to help her forget what she saw earlier, with Weasley.

Can he?

He can try.

The hairsbreadth between them is closed in an instant, by whom he isn't sure. All he knows is that their bodies are intertwined and their mouths are pressed together and it feels indescribable, and once again he tastes cinnamon and oranges, like Christmas and fancy scented candles.

He feels the troubles of this year draining away like bathwater, sliding off like ice sheets on windowpanes. How long has he waited for this moment? How many times has he pictured it?

It feels so much better than it did in his imagination.

He pulls her closer, this strange, wonderful angel who banishes the terrible reality of their lives and makes the whole world shimmer like the tears on her lashes.

There has to be a way to do this all the time.

_We can work this out_

_I believe _

_Although it seems impossible._

And then it's over. She takes a step back, reaches up, touches his face sweetly. "Thank you," she murmurs. "For staying."

"My pleasure." They are strangers again, not people who kiss endlessly in a dark room as they just did. Instead of merging together as one, they are stiff and apart.

He leans down and brushes her cheek with his lips. No salt, this time; only cinnamon and oranges. She looks up at him for a moment, and her eyes fill with tears. He doesn't know what she's crying for; the way she just kissed him? The fact that it ended? That he's a Death Eater now?

All of the above?

While he's pondering this, she turns away, and he knows he's lost her. He touches her hair one last time, and then she's gone.

He sinks to the floor. It's better this way, of course. Neither of them will get hurt this way, at least not physically.

But he can't stop thinking about how soft her lips were pressed to his; how good her body felt.

It doesn't matter who he kisses in the future, or who he's kissed in the past. None of them can compare to this one.

A tear traces its way down his cheek.

She's not his.

Not really.

She never was.

He reflects on this as he rises to his feet to face the world without Hermoine Granger.


End file.
